HD 'Loveseat'
by tigersilver
Summary: AU, EWE, Professsorial Draco and Harry. MPREG. altri uccelli wanted 'Draco in spectacles, established relationship, maybe old and grey' for her birthday. I skipped the 'grey'. Wizards live long and love longer.


Author: tigersilver

Rating: PG-13

Word Count: 3,700

Warnings/Summary: EWE, AU, Professoral Draco and Harry, MPREG. Also a heaping mound of fluff and sentiment. For altri_uccelli, for her birthday. And as she is awesome.

**HD 'Loveseat'**

Professors Malfoy and Potter (alphabetically or by tenure seniority) or Potter and Malfoy (ranking per student poll of popularity, overall, though it was universally agreed by the elder Years the two Profs were neck-to-neck in the Sheer _Fitness _Category) had this little 'thing' going on between them. Had, indeed, for a Crup's age. It was the topic of discreet conversation between all the older, _elder_ Profs (the ones who remembered them both when they were but Smalls) and the more recent staff additions.

To be specific, the 'thing' was all about furniture.

"Shift your skinny arse, Malfoy," Professor Potter would growl, staggering under a weight of parchment grading and the odd DADA text (he never recalled in time the Lightening Spell nor the Shrinking one) whenever it chanced that Professor Malfoy claimed it first. "Can't you see I need the room to spread out?"

"Potter! You twit! This sofa's been mine since Day One; I was here first, git," Malfoy would bark and grumble over the tops of his reading specs (silver-rimmed, Muggle-trendy, used for more than mere 'reading' as he grew older) and glare daggers, refusing to make room for his fellow academic. "Take yourself off. There's a lovely Windsor chair right over there—has your name written all over it."

"No," Potter would say simply, dumping his fluttering, riffling half-bushel of ephemera practically right upon Prof Malfoy's lap. "Shove over. Share."

Malfoy would then mutter darkly, glowering—but he would consent tacitly to fold his long legs in the other direction and yank his long arm off the back of the loveseat, even so. The remainder of the staff, gathering in Commons for post-dinner chit-chat and port or tea, would smile discreetly and murmur and all would be as it always was.

Well…as it had evolved, more like. Potter's advent on Staff as the 'new' DADA instructor had generated any number of Kneazle-and-Crup scuffles at first ('Chalk and cheese, aren't they?' Vector had muttered to Slughorn, 'And so unfortunately loud!') and for several months on, till Potter settled in. Malfoy, truly, had been a resident of Hogwarts staff for far longer—since just after the discreet divorce from his then-wife of three years, Astoria—and could validly claim he had accumulated more of those certain intangible rights Senior Staff owned. Nicer accoutrements in their private apartments, larger offices in their respective Houses and bushels more general respect given by other staff and the student body. Malfoy was a holy terror, in any case—sharp as a Muggle laser beam when crossed, with an edged tongue to match, and every now and again just as sour and snappish as his mentor Snape had been. But he was also possessed of a sparkling wit when he felt so inclined; he'd go leagues out of his way to brew helpful Potions for the other Profs and the Infirmary store and he was unfailingly loyal to the school—and Headmistress. And a damned fine Potions Prof, no question.

Even the Governor's Board—that testy group of high-ranking politicos and alumni—had no complaints. A Malfoy-taught Potions NEWT graduate from Hogwarts School was a young Wizard or Witch who knew their shit, backwards and forwards, inside and out. Placement was never a problem. The Headmistress was said to be highly pleased.

Potter's addition to Staff came much later down the chronological road—both gentlemen's sons were attending Hogwarts by then—and it sparked controversy in the Staff Room.

"Oh, now, look, Potter," Malfoy announced that first day, hands on slim hips, chin outthrust, "you can't just muscle in here and take people's seats. That's Horace's, f'r'instance. He'll be livid." (Horace Slughorn had by then moved onto Runes, due to a Scots stratagem on the part of the Headmistress, who noticed that while the old tub of lard excelled personally at Potions, he could no more teach it to students than he could successfully restrain himself from selling the dearer ingredients in the Storeroom on the black market for a tidy profit. Ergo, Runes, where there was considerably less temptation abounding.) "You can't just plant yourself in his special place, Potter—have some tact. And no, not there either—that's Sinestra's favourite table and armchair. She's not going to thank you, believe me."

Young Professor Malfoy was nothing if not aware of social dynamics. He'd fought with the equally young and untried Professor Longbottom ages before then for 'his' loveseat, finally winning over by sheer dint of beating feet to the Commons first after every supper just to plant his shapely bum square upon the middle of it. Also, he had brewed Neville a relieving lotion for the poor lad's inexplicable allergies to Sap Stingers and Mugwort roots very early on in their renewed social relationship. Neville had retired nobly from the field, expressing gratitude; the loveseat _was_ Malfoy's, no question.

"_Sod_ off—ahem!" Potter caught himself mid-curse under the Headmistress's beady eye. "Er, the heck you say, Malfoy. You don't own the damned furniture; no where on that do I see writ 'Property of Malfoy'!"

"Of course not," Malfoy shot back, promptly ensconcing himself and his tea tray upon the poufy, cushy article in question, "however, that's neither here nor there, Potter. This one's mine; back off—I got here first."

"Huh! We'll just see about that, Malfoy!"

Malfoy glowered over his specs; Potter glowered right back at him over the dark narwhal-hornshell rims of_ his_ and the eternal struggle began.

"Shift over," Potter ordered, every day after dinner. "Ponce."

"No, thanks," Malfoy came back, smiling sweetly. "Bugger off."

"I want to sit here, arse," Potter insisted. "It's the best stuffed set of cushions in here and my arse aches from helping Hooch."

"So what?" Malfoy would want to know. "That's not my problem, Potter. Go elsewhere. There's a nice Muggle recliner right over there with plenty of room to it. It's even your colour, Potter—hideous scarlet. Sit there, git. Not here."

"I like this one," Potter would announce and promptly insert himself on the one side or the other of Malfoy's lean person, whichever had the smidge more room. "And you, Malfoy. _You_ vacate if that damned foldy-uppy piece of crap is so bloody comfy. It attempts to eat me every time I venture near!"

"Poor Potter," Malfoy would coo, elbowing his fellow in the ribs smartly. "Now go away, Potty. This seat is claimed."

"No," Potter would state, categorically, "I won't, ponce," and then they would bicker for a solid hour, neither one showing the slightest signs of giving ground. "Oi! Can't make me, either."

Hooch, Pomfrey and McGonagall would roll eyes at them; the younger Profs and sundry TAs would cackle gleefully. It was like a comedy show on the telly, listening in on their insults with half an ear whilst discussing the relative merits of Puddleby over Wales and whether the weather would hold for much longer.

"Oof!" Potter would gasp when Malfoy deliberately knocked kneecaps with him, "why for Merlin's sake are you so pointy?"

"Prick," Malfoy would hiss succinctly. "Miscreant! Go away; I don't want you here. You're spreading DADA detritus, Potty. You've dragged your First Year essays all through my tea!"

"Don't care," Potter would sulk, "you won't share it, so why should I care?"

"I would, git, if you'd only ask politely," Malfoy always replied. "But that's too much to hope for, I know," he'd sigh a long-suffering sigh. "Harry Potter, everyone's hero—bane of my poor existence."

"I am not!" Potter would protest. "Fine—I'll ask politely, then, if it's so important to you," he'd growl. "May I?"

"But of course, Scarhead," Malfoy would allow, unexpectedly (but not). "What are you waiting for, an engraved invitation? The elves left two cups."

"Bah. Git," Potter's snarl could be heard as far across the room as a roll of incoming thunder. "Always a prickly prick."

"No, you."

"You."

"Difficult."

"Messy."

"Pointy."

"Undersized, foreshortened and wee."

"Arrogant."

"Pompous."

And so it went. Until Malfoy brought along a _Prophet_ crossword one evening and began quizzing Professor Potter for help with the clues, explaining to the room at large that since Potter so clearly wished to expand his vocabulary, he would aid him—by way of nightly quizzes that would stimulate his Neanderthal-sized brain.

"Oh say, Potty, what's a six-letter word for 'non-Magical'?" he asked, to start off with. "You'll know that one, naturally."

"'Muggle', arsewipe. Duh!"

"And what's an eight-letter word for 'soul-sucking Creature'?"

"Seriously, Malfoy?" Potter leant closer to peer at the newsprint. "My gods, it's really right there, isn't it? Do these editors have no common decency?"

"'Fraid not, Potty. It's the _Prophet_. Now, the word?"

"'Dementor', Malfoy. Of course."

"Of course," Malfoy jotted it in, shrugging. "You would know, wouldn't you?"

"Malfoy!"

"Er…thanks, though."

"…What?'"

"Thanks, I said," Professor Malfoy replied airily, shifting his bum over a smidge and incidentally making room for Professor Potter's dangerously listing pile of reference material. "Deaf, Scarhead?"

Potter snorted—gasped, turned a brilliant scarlet, huffed, puffed—and finally broke down into gales of ready laughter.

"Oh, _you_! You're so—so—_so_ damned _Malfoy_, Malfoy!"

Professor Potter—for once in their shared existence—seemed highly chuffed by this incontrovertible fact. Professor Malfoy's icy eyebrows rose to an inexpressible altitude and stuck there, registering surprise; he seemed rather uncertain as to what to do next for a tick—and then he, too, laughed. They both did, glancing at one another and snorting with barely stifled humour for some span of moments after that. Tea was poured. Peace was forged.

It was noted that when Professor Potter fell off his broom refereeing a weekend scrimmage, Professor Malfoy practically flew to the Infirmary with a brand-new patented and improved version of Skelegrow. And a super-strength pain potion from his very own private stock.

It was noted that when Professor Malfoy ventured to Knockturn to purchase ingredients for the school, Professor Potter accompanied him—ostensibly to help carry, but really to ensure Professor Malfoy's porcelain-toned hide remained unscathed by random hexes.

It was noted—by the elves—that at some point during the second year after the Great Harry Potter began teaching DADA, Professor Potter's bed in Gryffindor Tower starting showing signs of deliberate abandonment and Professor Malfoy's bed clothes in Slytherin territory had to be changed every day. Sometimes twice.

"No, I don't care for Hogsmeade, Harry," Professor Malfoy was heard to state, some years later—maybe three. "It's juvenile—_they're_ juvenile. They are, really. It all gives me the headache. You go."

"Don't wanna, not without you," Professor Potter sulked capably; effectively, batting black lashes at his fellow Prof. "No fun without you—plus, git, the boys expect us to buy things for them. You must."

"I don't. I'll give you Galleons. Be off with you."

"Draco!"

"Oh…really, Harry! Is it too much to have a lie-in on the one day I have off?"

The tenor of the loveseat bickering had changed its tune gradually, over the years.

"No, of course not, but we've Sunday to lie in and you can't skive this for yet another weekend. McGonagall's not happy with you."

"…I'm achy. Don't feel well."

"Er. What?" That made Professor Potter sit up and take notice. He peered anxiously over his specs at his seatmate. Placed a gentle hand on his boney, pointy knee. "What's that you say? Why? Are you sick?"

"I don't know, Potty—if I knew, don't you think I'd tell you?"

"Well…" Professor Potter thought hard for a moment. "You went to Poppy straight off, right?"

"Of course."

"And?'

"She doesn't know, either. I'm achy, nauseated, bloated and feel like tinned shit, Potty. Don't know why, particularly, but I do know I don't want to go to Hogsmeade. You go. Leave me alone."

"Hmm..." Professor Potter cast a palm carefully across Professor Malfoy's high paler-than-usual forehead, sifting the fine hairs that shaded his droopy eyes. "Not feverish, no. How long now?"

"Potter!" Malfoy hissed, glancing about him nervously. "I'm not getting into this here! Shut your trap like a good lad, will you?"

"How long?" Potter was adamant. "Draco?"

"Three months, maybe, more or less," Professor Malfoy replied grumpily, at long last. "Now go away. No—wait! Ask the elves for more tea, first. I want lapsang, stewed five ninutes, with lime wedges, and a current scone, dry. And perhaps…some herring."

"_Three months_?" howled Professor Potter, springing upwards and not playing the slightest heed to the other Saturday morning lingerers in Staff Commons. "_Herring_? Malfoy—_Draco_—are you _expecting_?"

He pointed an accusing forefinger.

"Er…wha-what?" Professor Malfoy swayed where he sprawled, skin gone the colour of aged parchment. "Oh, fuck _me_, Potter! You can't—you mustn't—_it cannot be_—I'm _not_ a fucking Veela! I swe…"

And then he fainted, dead away, on the spot, spilling tea things and text books every which way. Caught swiftly and ably by Professor Potter's arms (the Prof dove into it, or so it was mentioned later) and coddled within the comfy confines of their loveseat as he collapsed.

"Well, shit…" Professor Potter was heard to mumble sotto voce. He frowned horribly, pulling a nasty face. "Bloody figures—bloody Magic!" His face underwent a sea change as the true meaning of herring/scone combos and bloating slapped him into the Land of Utter Silly. "But…a baby! Another baby! Super! Wait'll I tell Ron and Hermione!"

"Potter! Harry Potter!" the Headmistress screeched, bearing down upon her two most favoured young Staff members. Also 'most difficult', but…well. "What _have_ you gone and bollixed up _now_?"

"Oh-my-gods! That's Draco down, isn't?" Professor Longbottom barked gruffly from the other end of Commons. He, too, sprang to his feet, bustling over. "Draco, old chap—you alright there? Harry, what's happened to him? What's going on?"

"Pregnant, Nev—I think…maybe." Gazing down at the felled man, Potter gave him a tiny little jiggle, just enough to send the pale head lolling sideways. Professor Malfoy groaned but showed no signs of leaping up and achieving a rapid recovery; Professor Potter frowned fretfully. "Don't know what else it could be, not with _that _set of symptoms. I mean—Gin!"

"Oh," Professor Longbottom replied gravely. "Oh…dear."

"Yep. Bugger! Oh, poor old chap; you look bloody awful. Come on, Draco; buck up, mate. Rise and shine, now."

Rocking Malfoy's prone body again—but gently—the Prof thoughtfully blinked at his armful for a moment or two, not minding the general gasp echoing about the sunny cheery room or the general concerted rush towards their particular staked-out territory, his and Malfoy's. Nor even his old mate Longbottom, hovering anxiously

"Maybe…give him air, Harry? Lay him down?"

Professor Potter ignored that, only gathering his stricken seatmate closer. Freeing a hand, he poked Malfoy's wan white cheekbone, rather forcefully.

"_Speak_ to me, Draco. Stop flopping about like a damned dead fish."

"Potter! Malfoy!"

Incoming were their concerned teaching fellows, the doughty Headmistress and Madam Pomfrey. Even the Slug…ever so slowly.

"Dear boy, whatever_ is_ the matter? Malfoy have a mishap?"

"Ah, Merlin!" Professor Potter exclaimed finally, ably ignored Horace's prying eyes along with every other botheration excepting Malfoy. "He's out cold, Nev! Must be awful, this." He shook his head, regretfully. "Swelling—sickness—fat as a house. Nappies, after. _Hate_ nappies. Shit, bloody shit. And here I was thinking we'd a few more years yet before grandchildren. Oi, er—Poppy! There you are—thank goodness! Poppy, a little help? He's down for the count, I think."

For some little while after that Incident the remainder of the Staff noticed the loveseat in question had expanded—right along with Professor Malfoy's waistline. Also, the DADA Prof no longer occupied himself with grading papers after dinner; he rubbed Malfoy's feet, fetched and carried and generally cavorted about like a house elf. Professor Malfoy staunchly finished out the Term, but just barely.

The loveseat then gathered dust. And not only because it was summer. Malfoy was confined to bed rest for the last trimester; Potter was glued to Malfoy.

A substitute Potions Prof took on the duties for the following autumn. Professor Potter appeared in class half-way through September. He was staggeringly grey with fatigue, smelling always of sicked-up milk and usually unshaven…but still quite remarkably capable. Oh, and he was smiling. Often, like a goof, even when his second son and his son's best pal (one Scorpius Malfoy) happened to accidently prank all of their own House (Ravenclaw) by spelling their textbooks in bronze-cast with blue porcelain vermeil pages.

And even when Professor Malfoy insisted his replacement was an utter dullard and he'd be at his podium 'come Hades or high water, Harry!', as soon as the baby slept through the night.

"Budge your arse over, Malfoy," Potter was thus back to grumping at his seatmate in relatively short order. It was late November again—four years on, perhaps, from Potter's installment as DADA instructor?—and the wicked winds shrieked down from the Arctic, bearing tinsel snow. "I have to feed the grub."

"Buggering hell! I just finally got myself settled; why do you _always_ do this, Scarhead? Have you no respect? Go sit over there, damn you."

"Shan't."

Professor Potter plopped his arse down, shouldered Baby Potter-Malfoy (name of Daisy, which was plebian but cheery) for a belching session and glared across the child carrier they'd tucked away between them. On his one side was stashed Daisy's bag of tricks; on Professor Malfoy's far side was a stack of childishly scrawled essays, some three feet vertical, positively dripping of vermillion ink.

"Feh! You smell of shrivelfig and asphodel, Malfoy—stinker! Cease your yammering; I'll be done soon enough."

Malfoy shrugged that off with nothing more dire than a faint sneer and busied himself poking at the baby blanket Daisy wore like a cape, smoothing out nonexistent wrinkles.

"And then I s'pose it'll be my turn to change her nappy," he sighed a long-suffering sigh. "As is usual. There goes any faint hope of being caught up. _Why_ is it never your turn, Harry? Explain this to me again, how you manage always to snag all the good bits of our daughter?"

"You're a git," Professor Potter cradled baby and bottle and carefully leant across the intervening half-yard, just to peck at Professor Malfoy's pointy nose. "Fair's fair. We drew lots, remember? I'm on tomorrow. And I love you, you irritatingly fecund wanker, so be quiet, now. Go ahead and red ink all those Third Year essays I know you've secreted away in Daisy's bag. She's dozing off…finally."

With a final pull and slurp she was, and Potter gave her another discreet round upon the shoulder, patting her round little bottom, mopping up her cheesy grin when she smiled up at them both, bubbles away.

"She's…not so bad, Potter," Malfoy remarked, his gaze bright as stars as they rested upon her. "Not bad a'tall."

"Nope," Professor Potter rejoined. "We do good work, you and I."

For precisely thirty seconds there existed a peaceful silence in that corner of Commons.

"….You know, Potter, I was an only child…" The Potions instructor tapped his quill to his chin, abruptly shifting topics. "Glad Scorpius isn't, yeah?" Peeping beneath his pale lashes, he glanced over at his fellow academe. A quick pink tongue tip darted out to lick an errant feather. "It's so lonely, being the only."

Potter, eyeing him suspiciously, narrowed his gaze sidelong and quite nastily, glaring. He snorted.

"Not for another eleven years, Draco."

After a long pause—a very long pause, during which Professor Malfoy considered—he nodded sharply, his chin nearly smacking his collar points with the force of it.

"Oh, alright, Potty," he huffed, "if you insist. Still…" The quill got another fast lick, red tongue flashing saliva. "This one's not too much trouble, really. Mayhap…six?"

"Eleven years, Malfoy," Potter stated grimly. "Eleven. And that's my last offer."

"Hmm."

"Uhm-hmmm."

"So…Scarhead," Malfoy waited a beat and then grinned like a hyena, "that doesn't mean we can't practice."

"Oh, really?" Potter's face lit up; instantly wreathing itself in delighted smiles. "You're certain, Draco? Poppy said it's alright? Really, _really_?"

"More than alright, wanker. Could've had some this morning if you'd been awake enough to notice," Malfoy snapped back shortly—but he licked the quill again, long and slow and tender. Professor Potter flushed, damp with perspiration all along his pink brow. "Did you, by any chance," his eyebrows waggled meaningfully, "notice, Potty? 'Cause parts of you seemed very interested. Sadly, the rest of you was still snoring away like a walrus."

"Merlin!"

Potter shifted uncomfortably upon his cushion, depositing baby Daisy in her carrier with swift, careful hands. The carrier was just as rapidly moved to the carpeted floor, safely available at the tips of their toes.

"This is annoying," he informed his seatmate. "Hang on while I just budge these over—"

"Potty, it's not a race."

"Yes, it _is_. I want to snog you, twat."

"And then more than that," Blond eyebrows were very supercilious indeed. "Later?"

"Definitely more later!" Potter swore. "Where did all this crap come from?" he added, fussed. "And why is the sodding loveseat so frigging long?"

"No idea," Malfoy replied, shrugging. "I think you brought half the crap with you. And you Engogio'd the loveseat, remember? Months ago. When my buttocks were lorry-sized and my feet hurt me."

"Bugger it! What a pain this is!"

Potter wriggled his bum on his much too wide cushion, making room within the piles of essays to grade and the ever-present baby bag until he finally lost patience with them all together. He swept them all off the expanded loveseat aside in a tumble of parchment and talc.

"That's the way, Potty," Malfoy taunted, grinning. "Make a mess, wake the baby."

"Shrink the sodding sofa, Malfoy," his lover ordered smartly, cutting him off. "It's much too large."

"That I can do, Potter—oh, that I can do."

The Profs quirked mischievous lips at one another, edging arses ever closer. Their spectacle lenses glinted merrily in the reflected hearth light as dark strands and light strands flipped and flopped, this way and that, sifting sideways as hands slid along the spine of the loveseat, bobbing as chins bobbed and noses bumped. Till their lips at last met and silenced the eternal need to bicker amicably, ending all banter…till the 'morrow.

The Staff Commons was toasty warm against the chill November, drowsy with chatter and filled to the brim with new faces and old—some very new, such as Daisy; some very old, such as the floating, vaguely transparent Binns—and it was coming on Christmas. Hagrid had brought in a both a tree and Yule log; they waited at the ready. There was greenery and mistletoe balls abounding, strung up in the oddest of places. Bayberry candles burnt in the sconces, picking up the colours of four Houses, united. It was, as all agreed, a most excellent time of year to be at Hogwarts.

Safe inside.


End file.
